


There Once Was a Witch; or, Hereticity in the Modern Era

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen, but in fact they actually just don't SHUT UP, somewhere in the world huey laforet can't stop sneezing, you might see the wordcount and think oooh here's a narratively driven fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Luchino is a better magician than he is a murderer, and Elmer is a better apprentice than he is a hostage. Neither the son of a witch nor the descendant of one can decide on the limitations of magic; Aging doesn’t care as long as they keep being entertaining.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had this discussion a while ago about Luchino and Elmer becoming a magician duo and ever since I've felt obligated to Make That Happen, so for better or for worse, it's happening

Heritage was a heavy word, and he did not have the strength to carry it in full. He picked at it like one picks at the salvageable pieces of a charred dinner, choosing the bits that he could swallow — bravery and vengeance — and pushing the rest aside.

Heritage _clung_ ; what he did not choose to bring with him still followed him regardless. What he could not swallow still left stains. What he pushed aside still sat at the edge of his personality, mocking him. He had this stiletto and this _name_ , but he could not drain the half of his blood that did not belong to a victim; there was a villain in his veins, too, and a heretic, and a witch. There was more that survived in him than the blonde of his hair and the blue of his eyes.

Heritage was not something he could pick and choose — not something _anyone_ could pick and choose. There once was a witch, and the magic did not drown when she did.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How many times do I have to tell you? You’re a _hostage_ , not a VIP.”

The stagedoor was a boundary through which the Rookie Walock left and Luchino B. Campanella emerged. He traded his showman’s smile for something less pleasant, and less _honest_ ; lips drawn in a straight line, frown creasing his brow. He held his head high, but the imposing veneer slipped too easily off his narrow shoulders and failed to strike any fear in Elmer — who had been Elmer inside the theatre and was no more and no less Elmer stepping out into the alleyway.

“I told you to stay backstage. Unless you _want_ to be tied up, I suggest you start following orders.” He shot a glare over his shoulder, riding on the hope that an empty threat might have an impact if delivered well.

A hope that shattered with the man’s lighthearted laughter.

“It’s not what I want, but you can tie me up if that would make you happy.”

These words from any other hostage would have indicated compliance, but from Elmer it was almost the opposite.

They stopped at the end of the road, and Luchino folded his arms over his chest, watching the cars zip past with lacklustre intent; his eyes would settle anywhere they could if it meant avoiding making contact with _his_. He sighed.

“It would make me happy if you stopped interrupting my shows.” He’d learned this formula by heart; knowing him only as long as he had, Luchino already knew that he would never deny a request prefaced with the words: ‘ _it would make me happy’._ It was a petty manipulation. His conscience could bear it.

“Sorry about that,” Elmer replied, cheery tones sounding very far from _sorry_. “It’s just you sounded really happy! I wanted to see if you were smiling.”

The light turned red, as did Luchino’s ears — with stopping force and stubborn pride, respectively.  

“I —”

“And you were! You weren’t faking it one bit. It was really great.”

“Stop mocking me.”

He took long strides to place himself a good distance from Elmer, and made a point of not looking back over his shoulder once he’d crossed the street. If the man got hit by a car, it wouldn’t have _mattered_ , anyway — but for what it was worth, he didn’t.

“I’m not mocking you. I really do think it’s great, being able to smile like that! The tricks were fun, too, even if I only saw the end of that one.”

Luchino drew in a slow breath. This was ridiculous — getting worked up over such a petty remark, and from _Elmer_ , no less. He made an effort to iron out the creases of his expression, reminding himself of the stolid mask he wanted to embody.

“It’s nothing that _great_ ,” he responded when the indifference returned to his voice. “It’s true that I enjoy doing these shows, but they’re not important. You’re belittling the real work I do when you go on about silly tricks.”

Having caught up to his fast walk with ease, Elmer fell into step at his side. He moved to ruffle Luchino’s hair, and his reflexes went to good use in evading the gesture.

“If you ask me, you enjoying them is what _makes_ them important.”

“You’ll notice that I did _not_ ask you,” he stated abruptly.

Perhaps Elmer recognised that continuing to speak would do him no favours, or perhaps he just ran out of things to say (though Luchino doubted this possibility. _Elmer_ and _running out of things to say_ sounded like an oxymoron). Either way, he was almost silent for the few minutes it took to reach the steps of the apartment; nothing but humming and whistling, until Luchino reached for his keys and the glorious _almost silence_ was lost.

“Why do you do it?” he asked. “If you don’t think that enjoying magic tricks is a good enough reason.”

Luchino’s hand paused on the door handle for a thoughtful moment, then he answered with the dull _click_.

“I suppose it’s about the audience.”

He knew this was a vague answer, but part of him hoped that Elmer would content himself with it — with an answer vague enough not require the truth but honest enough not to be a lie.

“The attention?”

“Not at all.”

He tolerated the attention, but without the payoff it would be another heap of pressure; if that was what he wanted, he got enough of it as the leader of the Mask Makers. He furrowed his brow, debating whether or not it was worth trying so hard to hide something so inconsequential. At worst, Elmer would laugh at him — but, then, when was the man _not_ laughing?

“People walk into a magic show expecting to be entertained, and I… take pride in giving that to them,” he explained, stepping inside with Elmer in tow. “When I see them cheer or clap, or smile, it makes me feel like —”

“Like maybe you can be happy, too?”

His feet halted at the threshold of the living room.

“Don’t do that.”

“Huh?”

He turned face to Elmer, brow furrowed.

“It’s bad enough when Aging does it, and you’re — a stranger.”

“That’s pretty harsh, calling me a stranger when I live with you.”

“Just _stop_.”

“Stop what?”

He watched Elmer’s unwavering smile for a few seconds before coming to the conclusion that he genuinely didn’t _know_. How someone could be so observant and so oblivious at the same time was a mystery to him — unless he _wasn’t_ observant at all, unless Luchino was just _obvious_ , unless his mask was as see-through as Aging had been making it out to be for all those years. He decided this was not an option.

“Acting like I’m so… transparent.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being transparent, but if you want me to pretend you aren’t —”

 _To_ pretend _he wasn’t._

Luchino’s jaw snapped into a deep frown.

“That’s not what I said.”

— was it? He’d asked for him to stop. In a sense, that _necessitated_ pretending he couldn’t see the things he didn’t want him too. His fists furled at his sides, frustration welling up, with Elmer, with himself, with the layers of him that peel away like cheap wallpaper.

It was Elmer that spared him, for once. No doubt because of the visibility of it, because he was _not_ happy, and he was not making any attempt to look like he was.

“It won’t happen again,” he said simply, smiling his way. “It was just a guess, anyway.”

Luchino turned stiffly, and continued into the room. This didn’t mean the subject was dropped, but he was, in a small part, _grateful_ that Elmer had at least spared him his pride; his pride was in short supply lately.

“You weren’t completely wrong,” was his mumbled response.

“— About how it makes me feel, I mean.” He lifted his shoulders into a shrug, taking a seat on the sofa. “I’ve done things that can’t be excused, and it… balances out the equation, making their lives better, if only for an hour or two.”

“It’s not the same.” Elmer nodded and leaned back against the wall. “Still, I understand.”

Luchino almost snorted at this declaration. The idea that this man could understand _anything_ about him was unbelievable — yet he seemed genuinely thoughtful in that moment, eyes closed, manic grin calmed to the barest smile.

“I could help.”

This time, Luchino _did_ snort.

“ _You_ could help?”

 _Elmer_ and _helpful_ ; another oxymoron.

“Yeah! I know a few magic tricks already, actually.” He reached into his jacket pocket as he spoke.

Luchino shook his head, and, with all the conviction of an atheist reading a prayer, replied: “If you say so.”

“I do!” He retrieved a deck of cards, grinning broadly. “Here, I’ll show you! I can do the one where —”

“Amateur,” Luchino cut in immediately, a hand waving dismissively in the air. How old had he been when he’d learned _card tricks_? Five? Six? If this man was going to claim to be able to help, he should show something worth his three hundred years.

“And I think I can swallow swords,” he offered, confidence still ringing in his voice.

This claim raised Luchino’s eyebrows. He leaned forward in his seat, locking his hands together on his lap. “You _think_?”

“Lend me your stiletto, I’ll show you.”

He drew back. His hand moved instinctively to where the blade was concealed in his blazer — as though protecting some priceless artifact. 

“It’s a family heirloom,” he spat, more aggressively than he’d intended.

“Monica wouldn’t mind,” Elmer said far too easily, serving only to narrow Luchino’s eyes.

“And I should take your word for that?” There was venom in his voice, bitter sarcasm which forgot, or chose to ignore, that Elmer had known Monica before he had known the _story_ of her. It was a difficult thought to come to terms with, that he was not the one who understood most the person who defined his existence. “You’re not using _her_ stiletto for a — stunt.”

“Okay,” he resigned quickly, waving the earlier request off with a nonchalant hand gesture and an accepting smile. “No need to get upset. Do you have something else I can use?”

Luchino opened his mouth to say that he _wasn’t_ getting upset — that he was perfectly _calm_ — but all that came out was an exasperated sigh. He got to his feet in a reluctant, drawn-out movement, and trudged over to the table. There were a number of weapons in the drawer; he took a moment to study them, before tossing a sheathed dagger Elmer’s direction with very little care or grace.  

“If you must.”

He had doubts about how well it would work for sword swallowing; it was certainly longer than the average kitchen knife, but it was far from a _sword_. He had greater doubts for Elmer’s ability to perform any such trick, though, and these doubts quieted the concern that he hadn’t provided him with suitable equipment — it wouldn’t be _his_ fault if he failed.

 _Failure_ was not quite the word for what happened next.

Elmer withdrew the stiletto, took a quiet moment to study it — while Luchino took a moment to study _him_ , concern creeping into his mind — then, with a bold smile, plunged the blade down his throat.

Did he succeed? In the strictest sense, yes. In any other sense, no.

By some definitions it _was_ a magic trick — one which he’d first demonstrated by tumbling off the edge of a ship almost three hundred years ago and had not stopped demonstrating since.

Luchino knew that he was immortal — knew, logically, that he would recover — but spilled blood looked the same whether it planned to _stay_ spilled or not. When the dagger pierced his neck he was reminded of every time _he_ had caused this; the same gushing red, the same gargled noises, the same haunting stillness. The sight of blood squirming back against the flow only worsened the bile rising in his throat; it took time to heal, and Luchino did not stay to watch the process.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Does this happen a lot?”

It was not a _comforting_ question — Luchino forced himself upright just to glare at him — but at least it was a _different_ one. Having spent the past twenty minutes listening to a nauseating cycle of ‘ _cheer up!’ ‘give us a smile!’ ‘c’mon, let’s laugh!’_ , even a blow to his pride was preferable.

“Gahaha, _all the time_.”

“Shut up, Aging,” he muttered, voice weak through his sore throat. Being seen like this by her alone was bad enough. The hand rubbing circles on his back did not ease the sting; it only reminded him that he should feel disgust on top of his disgust — repulsed by the sight he’d witnessed and equally repulsed by his inability to stomach it. When this happened alone it was easy to let the sickness pass and put it behind him. With Aging and Elmer watching he felt like the worst of him was being put on _display_.

“I wasn’t expecting you to _stab yourself_ —” though delivered through ground teeth, this was spoken more pointedly. Elmer’s hand paused.

“I really thought you’d find that funny.”

“ _Funny_?! Who on earth would find that funny?” he snapped, snatching a washcloth from the counter to dab at his eyes.

“You’d be surprised.” His shoulders lifted into a shrug, grin sharp at the edges. “Or I guess you wouldn’t be. You probably already know all about my past, right?”

He did, but didn’t respond to say so — not with words, or with a nod. He was very still, recalling. When he’d read those files the immortals had been steps in his plan, nothing more; he had learned their histories to prepare himself for whatever it might take to capture one of them, and he had not allowed himself to feel anything. A dark beginning meant nothing. If he felt sympathy for a boy being raised in a cult, he would equally be forced to feel sympathy for one who lost his friends and family to a witch hunt — and he could not do this, so he felt sympathy for none of them. These were facts. That was all he could bear for them to be.

As far as he was concerned, Elmer still _was_ nothing more than a part of a bigger plan, a stepping stone on the way to Huey Laforet, to revenge, to closure —

Or so he told himself, but he could not deny the way his stomach twisted when Elmer added:

“My parents liked doing that sort of thing to me, so it wouldn’t be that weird if you found it funny.”

Maybe it was having seen it firsthand on the cruise. The cult no longer belonged to some vague three-hundred year old horror story; it had a place in his own memory, and he struggled to tie Elmer into it, this man who did not seem capable of negative emotion. He struggled to imagine that he had been one of those children — that he had ever been a child _at all_. He turned halfway to look at him, morbidly curious to catch some glimpse of grief in his eyes,  but the sight of his unchanging expression almost sent him heaving again, and he looked away.

Aging saved him from having to respond.

“I dunno about the _stabbing_ , but seeing the boss’ face woulda been pretty funny. Too bad I missed it.”

She laughed, and Elmer joined her — and Luchino swallowed the urge to throw up.

“Y’know, thinking about, _he’d_ probably have a good laugh about it, too.”

This was not directed at Aging, or even at Luchino. It hung in the air for a moment, before it hit him in the gut.

“— _Huey_?” Luchino asked, hand clenching tight around the cloth. “He’d laugh about your pain, and you still _defend him_?”

Aging backed out of the doorway at this, chuckling something about _knowing where this is going_ , and taking her snide remarks with her, leaving an indignant Luchino and a bemused Elmer alone.

“Huh? No, I didn’t mean Huey,” Elmer replied calmly. “I’ve asked him before, but he said that wouldn’t make him smile.”

His face grew hot at the realisation that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, too humiliated to dare draw attention to the fact by asking who Elmer _had_ meant. 

“Anyway, even if he did want to hurt me, it wouldn’t change how I think about him.” The man shrugged. “You said yourself you’ve done bad things, too, right? And you still deserve —”

“I don’t deserve anything,” he snarled, with force he did not realise had been building up inside him. “And I wouldn’t expect anyone to think otherwise.”

“Ah.”

In spite of the belligerence, Elmer only smiled.

“You know, she used to stay stuff like that, too.” He tilted his head back, eyes closed, reminiscing. “‘I don’t have the right to be loved’, ‘I don’t have the right to be happy’, ‘I don’t have the right to smile’. But it didn’t matter. I wanted her to smile anyway — just like I want Huey to smile, and you, and even _that guy_.”

Hearing her spoken about like this — like a person, rather than a storybook character — gave him pause. He didn’t _want_ to argue against this; if Monica had felt the way he did, that made it less shameful.

Elmer’s hand lifted to clap him on the shoulder.

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve.”

Luchino sighed, raising himself to check his reflection in the mirror — by force of habit alone; there was no one in the building left who hadn’t seen him, reddened eyes and splotchy face and all.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re exhausting to speak to?”

“Actually, there’s this guy called Huey —”

“Forget I asked.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sword swallowing was decidedly out of the question, but Elmer was not.

He rationalised the decision easily, because it was convenient. He didn’t think that Elmer would honestly be of any help, but it was a simple way to keep an eye on him _while_ ensuring that he wouldn’t get in the way again. He couldn’t interrupt a show he was part of —

And if he really did want people to smile as much as he said he did, then onstage they would be working towards the same goal.

“After that, you just…”

The snap of his fingers brought a flash of flame to life. He had never had to explain these tricks aloud to someone — nor had he even heard most of them _explained_ aloud. Like leadership, it was something he had largely taught himself through practice, and trial and error. He hadn’t had a mentor since his father left, and it was strange to attempt to _be_ one.

Even so, it was going… _surprisingly_ smoothly. Elmer was not as difficult a student as he was a hostage. He listened to his instructions — so quietly, in fact, that he felt awkward having to fill the silences.  

“Just be careful not to hold your hand too close to your face when you do it. It’s unlikely you’d injure yourself _badly_ but — what am I saying? You’d just heal anyway.” He furrowed his brow, closing his fist around the flame to squelch it.

“What are you smiling like that for?” he sneered. Elmer looked to be on the verge of laughter. Elmer always looked like he was on the verge of laughter, and this only bothered Luchino when he felt like he’d done something worthy of mockery.

“Does there have to be a reason?”

Luchino wrapped his arms around himself, one shoulder lifting into a half shrug.

“… Well, _is_ there?”

“It’s just you reminded me of Huey a bit there.”

He stiffened at the name, features drawing into a taut frown. Perhaps he could learn to stop hating the man, if only Elmer could stop _mentioning_ him.

“He used to do stuff like that with fire. I guess he probably still does — it’s been a while,” he laughed, and Luchino’s brow twitched. “You know, the first time I saw it I really thought it was magic.”

“Don’t compare me to him.”

“Still touchy about that, huh?” Elmer raised an eyebrow. “I figured now you know he didn’t kill her —”

“He didn’t _save_ her either.” He met the man’s eyes with a glare and anchored it there, but Elmer remained nonplussed.

“I guess not — not yet, anyway.”

“Not… _yet_?”

It was a very small set of words to be capable of tilting reality’s axis.

“Between you and me,” Elmer lowered his voice to a whisper, though Luchino got the sense that this would be between him and _anyone who would listen_. “He’s been telling me for almost three hundred years now that he’s going to bring her back.”

Luchino was very quiet for a moment, then murmured:

“You mean — necromancy?”

— then felt the urge to kick himself for letting the words leave his mouth. Perhaps there _were_ things in this world beyond what he knew — _of course_ there were. One of them was standing in front of him. Immortality, alchemy; he could accept what he couldn’t deny, but that didn’t mean he should give into _any_ childish fantasy that came to mind. Reality was not a magic show; it had _limits_. 

Monica Campanella was dead. This was a fact. If it was not, he would not be living this life at all.

“I don’t know about that. Maybe. He hasn’t really explained —”

“That’s ridiculous. When people die, they —”

“Sometimes come back to life? I have, anyway — more times than one.”

“That’s different.”

“But it’s not any less ridiculous.”

He decided he hated it, regardless.

More than Monica’s death and the way it weighed down on his shoulders, he hated this; the suggestion that he never needed to bear the burden to begin with, the suggestion that Huey Laforet might tear both vengeance and _purpose_ from his heart in one fell swoop — and the damning knowledge that if he could, if he did, then he did not do so soon enough for Luchino to find anything _else_ to live for.

So he stopped listening. He unfolded his arms. He turned his back on Elmer. He labelled it nonsense, and went back to his tricks, clicking to life sparks of fire — fire that was nothing like Huey Laforet’s.

“I’m not saying he’s going to be able to. Honestly, I don’t know that much about what’s possible and what’s not,” Elmer clarified, now only to himself. “But if anyone can do it, it’s Huey. I always wondered if he —”

“If you’re not even going to attempt the trick, there’s no point in me teaching it to you,” he interrupted, glancing over his shoulder. Flames danced at his fingertips, and Elmer laughed.

“You know, you’re a pretty polite kid most of the time. Shouldn’t you respect your elders?”

“I’m not a _kid_ ,” was the only response he offered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“If you call me that one more time you’re not coming on stage with me.”

“C’mon, I think it suits you! ‘Luchino’ sounds so _serious_.”

“I _am_ serious.”

— Even if his current demeanour, crinkled up nose and immature tone, did not go to support this. He tugged at his bowtie, letting out a _huff_ of breath.

“You don’t have to act like that around me, Lu-Lu.”

“I said _stop that_.”

“If it would make you happier you can call me a nickname, too!”

This sounded less like a helpful suggestion and more like a demand.

“No.” Luchino shook his head once, with sharpness and finality, and, employing the only language that could get through his skull, said: “That would _not_ make me happy. It would make me happy if you called me ‘Rookie’.”

“But that’s what your subordinates call you. I’m practically family, right?”

“No, you’re not. In case you misheard me the first hundred times, you’re my _hostage_ ,” Luchino sighed, but his lips curved into a wry smile. “Though I’m curious as to how you figured _family_ , of all things.”

“Well, you’re Huey and Monimoni’s —”

“ _Monica’s_ —”

“Great-great-great-great-great… great? — great grandson.”

He drew a sharp breath.

“… More or less.”

“And the three of us were really close!”

“From the sounds of it.”

“So you should think of me as ‘Uncle Elmer’.”

Luchino narrowed his eyes, studying the man with an incredulous look.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ah, well.”

Elmer accepted defeat as he always did — with an unwavering grin and a nonchalant shrug.

“We aren’t _brotherly_ , me and Huey, so ‘uncle’ wouldn’t be right anyway. I was just hoping you’d laugh, Lu-Lu.”

“I’ll laugh when your jokes get funny,” he replied. “And _stop calling me that_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Rookie Warlock belonged entirely to the stage. No aspect of that persona was to carry over into the real world; they were separate entities, Luchino, the Mask Maker, the magician. He filed all these parts of himself away in neat boxes, because he feared if he did not he would lose something that made him whole.

The stagedoor was the line where one version of him ended and the other began, but that day it was different. He stepped outside and found himself in a liminal space where Luchino B. Campanella was allowed to borrow the Rookie Warlock’s face. The boy had many masks to hide behind — one to conceal tears, one to conceal disgust, one to conceal anger — but had never had to create one to conceal a _smile_.

“That was fun.”

“It was…” he trailed off, failing to find a better description. “It _was_.”

Elmer’s grin shone, and for once his triumph did not feel like Luchino’s defeat.

“The crowd seemed to like you.”

It had worried him at first, Elmer’s outgoing nature. He had broken down the wall between performer and audience within minutes, acting more clown at times than magician’s assistant, but it had been well received. They had _liked_ his comical expressions and his silly jokes, and when Luchino finished a trick he would tell them _smile!_ — and they _would_.

And with every smile the fear in the pit of his stomach would dissolve, and dissolve, and dissolve, until there was nothing left but _pride_ , and then he was smiling, too.

A smile which he could not keep off his face.

It had been fun — and how long had it been since Luchino could say that about _anything_?

He did not sneer or chide Elmer the whole walk home, did not even refer to him as a _hostage_ — as though this was a gift, a _thank you_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Yeah, it was good, boss,” Aging leaned back, front legs of her chair lifting worryingly far off the ground. “But it’ll be cooler if you _actually_ saw him in half next time! Gahaha!”

Luchino’s smile had disappeared somewhere between arriving back at the apartment and unpacking the takeaway Aging had picked up — and with purpose, because she had pointed it out in a way that felt like mockery, whether it _was_ or not. He pushed the food around on his plate with a fork, listening to the conversation with muted distaste.

“You think so? I don’t mind, if that’s what’ll make you smile!” Elmer chimed, leaning forward in his own chair so that his elbows rested on the tabletop. The lapse in manners alone was enough to make Luchino grimace.

“Could you two stop being so… off-putting?” he grumbled, gesturing in Elmer’s direction with his utensil. “Immortals still feel pain, don’t they?”

“We do, but it’s nothing new.”

Luchino almost flinched at these words; Elmer’s candor and the realisation of his own bluntness cutting equally into his composure. He cursed himself for letting it slip his mind again. It was important to be aware of the information surrounding one’s enemies — hostages, _allies_ , whatever he was now — at all times —

But how could he ever attach _that_ past to _this_ man? It didn’t fit. He felt like Frankenstein placing the heart into his monster, tacking pain onto this smile; it wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to form a living, breathing creature.

He thought all this and spoke _nothing_. He was not convinced Elmer ever knew the meaning of what he was saying — and so he refused to admit to creating meaning from it.

“If it cheers someone up it’s worth it! Anyway, you lose consciousness pretty fast when you’re sliced in half.”

“You talking from personal experience?” Aging chuckled, covering the worrisome _creaks_ of her chair. There was a glint of interest in her eye — a morbid curiosity which Luchino did not possess and could not understand, but which Elmer entertained happily.

“Hahaha, to be honest —”

A _clank_ interrupted his story. Both sets of eyes turned to look when Luchino dropped — or flung, with some force — his fork onto the plate.

“Do you _ever_ listen when people ask you to stop?”

“Huh?” Elmer returned his question with a less artfully posed one — and _Aging_ answered:

“Don’t worry about it, boss is just squeamish.”

“Right, I forgot about that.”

Luchino remembered himself abruptly; remembered that he was a leader and a force to be reckoned with and that these sounded like the words of an ill-tempered child. He neutralised his expression and shook his head.

“I’m not,” he lied. “— I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

“It’s okay! You know how you can make it up to me?”

He arched an eyebrow, the word _no_ on the tip of his tongue, until Elmer practically launched himself over the table to pinch at the corners of his mouth.

“Show me a smile! We had a great show earlier, right?” Glasses rattled as the shaking table settled back into place. Luchino, recovering from very nearly falling backwards, stared on as the man tried to contort his forceful apathy into happiness.

“So whatever’s bothering you know, laugh it off. C’mon, laugh with me!”

“— Get off my face,” he spoke the command as best he could through the forced smile. Elmer dropped his hands but did not sit back in his seat, watching Luchino expectantly.

“You know, boss, I like this guy,” Aging declared, then thew her head back with a hearty chuckle. “Let’s laugh, yeah!”

This time when Elmer joined her, Luchino made an attempt to do the same. It felt strange, foreign — he seldom had a _reason_ to laugh, and now he was being prompted to laugh for _no reason_ , no reason other than for the laughter itself.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

He laughed, only shortly, only _bitterly_ , because how could he argue? Elmer was right. The show had went well. There were no enemies at his heel. He and Aging did not mean him harm, even if his defenses told him otherwise. Even if everything in him told him that things could not be as calm as they were, reacting badly would only demonstrate his own anxieties. If they expected him to laugh, then —

Words echoed in the back of his mind.

 _You don’t get to decide what you deserve_.

Then he would laugh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Doing alright up there?”

“I’m doing great!”

The shouted response came from a good fifteen feet off the ground, where Elmer lay suspended in the air. Before he spoke up, one might have assumed he was _asleep_ ; calm as anything, resting smile and closed eyes. Luchino peered up at him for a long moment, then turned his attention to Aging.

“The rig works,” he stated brusquely. “You can get him down.”

“Gahaha, but he’s doing _great_ boss! Why d’you wanna ruin his fun?”

“Aging.”

“Alright, alright.”

When his feet touched down on the stage, he was laughing.

“You know, it’s bad luck to shoot down an albatross.”

“Excuse me?” Luchino narrowed his eyes, attempting to decipher this cryptic statement.

Elmer extended his arms out to the sides so that Aging could unfasten the thin, barely visible strings attaching him to the rig, and while she did he explained happily:

“It was a joke! You know, because I was ‘flying’? And you told Aging to get me down? My last name’s Albatross —”

“It wasn’t very funny.”

“Haha, that’s pretty good!”

Luchino and Aging responded simultaneously, one deadpan stare and one snicker. He shot her a look, which did not shut her up.

“Is it _actually_ bad luck?” he asked once the woman’s laughter had quieted.

“Do you believe in bad luck?”

Luchino watched Elmer’s unchanging smile, debating to himself: there were events in his life that could be considered _unlucky_ , certainly, but he didn’t owe them to opening umbrellas inside or seeing black cats.

“No,” he decided, after some deliberation. “The way I see it, ‘luck’ is just the world performing magic tricks — they may _seem_ inexplicable, but there is something _real_ behind every one of them. Baseless superstition like that is nonsense. It’s for people who are fooled by the sleight of hand.”

“You’re probably right.” Elmer nodded. “I don’t believe in bad luck either. I believe in _good_ luck, though.”

From behind him Aging let out a snort, but left Luchino to point out the contradiction.

“How can you believe in good luck but not in bad luck?”

Elmer smiled a little bit more.

“How can _you_ believe in immortality but not in the possibility of bringing someone back to life?”

The question was disquieting, but no longer unexpected. He steeled himself and responded easily: “Because I’ve _seen_ immortality. I doubt you’ve ever seen good luck — and I’m _sure_ you’ve seen bad luck.”

He thought it was a harsh truth, but Elmer laughed like it was a joke.

“That depends on how you judge it.”

Aging plopped herself down on the floor, legs crossed and expression smug, watching as Luchino’s resolve deteriorated.

“I _guess_ you could call some of the things that have happened in my life ‘bad’, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad _luck_. If those things hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here now — so they were actually good luck.”

“You say that like being held hostage is a favorable outcome,” he sneered.

“You’re not _really_ holding me hostage, are you?”

The certainty in these words gave Luchino a start, eyes wide and posture stiff.

“Of course I am,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. It had never occurred to him that he _wasn’t_. That had been the plan from the start, after all; to take one of the immortals hostage —

“I’m here because I want to be,” he grinned. “And I think you know that. Otherwise you’d be tying me to a chair and torturing me for information or something, right?”

“That’s…”

Luchino answered him with silence and a thousand yard stare. Aging chimed in with something along the lines of _he’s got a point, boss_ , but he did not fully listen to it. He wondered why this had not _struck_ him as unnatural; that he had _not_ thought to force information out of Elmer, even though the pang in his gut told him that he had done so over less important things, and more times than he would care to remember.

“We can keep pretending that it’s normal to eat dinner with your hostages and teach them magic tricks and perform on stage with them if you want — if that’s going to make you smile.”

He blinked, mouth open in some silent rebuttal that he could not find the words for. Instinct told him that this was mockery, that his leadership skills were being called into question, that the answer was to push his shoulders back and raise his head higher and _lie_ — but it didn’t _sound_ like mockery. He wasn’t even laughing at him, this time.

“But you have to admit, that sounds a lot like good luck.”

He would soon change the subject — back to the show, back to what he knew was true — because he could not dispute this. If he hadn’t _meant_ for it to be so, then it must have been luck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Why ‘warlock’?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why not ‘magician’? It sounds a lot happier.”

“There’s no reason for it. I liked the sound of ‘warlock’, that’s all.”

“Hey, maybe I should be the ‘magician’!”

“I suppose that if you’re going to keep performing with me, you _should_ have a name.”

“How about the ‘Miraculous Magician’?”

“How about the ‘Smiling Simpleton’?”

“I’ve got it! You’re the ‘Rookie Warlock’ even though you’re a master, right?”

“That’s right.”

“So I should be the ‘Master Magician’ even though I’m a rookie. It’ll be funny.”

“— Hey, you’re laughing! Does that mean you agree?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There once was a witch.

When he was a child, Luchino had read about her in a play, and he had decided that if that was true — if he was descended from the likes of witches and alchemists, _heretics_ — then _he_ would choose for that magic to become something good.

He could not pick and choose which parts of his heritage moulded him; _every_ part of it did. He was the Mask Maker, bearing Monica’s costume and stiletto, and he was also the Rookie Warlock, bearing Huey’s fire and trickery.

So perhaps it was a lie to say that there was _no reason at all_ he called himself the Rookie Warlock — but he lied often and well, and more easily than he told the truth, and Elmer did not care as long as he was smiling.

The _Rookie Warlock_ and the _Master Magician_ , as their names appeared on the poster outside, performed their official debut to a packed theatre — and it was not perfect. Luchino’s voice had faltered for a moment when announcing that he was going to saw his assistant in half, and Elmer had given into laughter during their levitation trick; it did not go smoothly.

Which was _fine_.

By the end of it he was not thinking about where his plans had gone awry; he was thinking about how easy it was to smile, how much joy there had been in that room and how it had cleansed him. Aging clapped louder than anyone else in the audience when they finished, and even Elmer’s smile looked a little bit _fuller_ when he glanced his way.

They were a double act now, he supposed.

There was a surprising realisation; not the realisation that he wasn’t alone — he’d always known that, Aging had always made that clear — but the realisation that, however many walls he put up, he did not _want_ to be.

He took his bow, flourishing and dramatic as always, and somehow _different_.


End file.
